


This Gun's for Hire (Even If We're Just Dancing in the Dark)

by Meadow Lion (Meadow_Lion)



Category: The Firm (TV)
Genre: Cheating, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Canon, Roughness, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13051926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadow_Lion/pseuds/Meadow%20Lion
Summary: Sometime after the end of the series, truths come to light . . . but only in the dark.





	This Gun's for Hire (Even If We're Just Dancing in the Dark)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> I dearly hope you enjoy it, Sandrine!
> 
> The title is Bruce Springsteen's. Any mistakes are my own.

In the surreal pitch of 2 a.m. in his office, Mitch is staring into his second glass of scotch when Joey appears, pale and backlit in the doorway like the Ghost of Mobmas Future. Mitch snorts.

"Something funny?" Joey asks. "I'd think you were laughing at me, except I'm sure we both know better than that."

Shaking his head, Mitch raises his tumbler mockingly. "Just the spirits, Joey."

Joey grabs it as if it were an offering and tosses back the remaining half of the glass. Then he holds it out. When Mitch reaches for it, Joey wags a finger at him and clicks his tongue. "Get your own. I want a refill. And you drinking alone is just too sad."

Mitch rolls his eyes but goes for a fresh glass and the bottle.

Joey clinks their filled glasses. "Cheers."

Mitch pauses with the glass at his lips. "What do you have to be happy about?"

"Maybe I appreciate good company," Joey says, his eyes glinting in the dark. "Or maybe toasting is just polite and I was raised right."

Very intentionally Mitch does not choke at that. He takes a sip and reaches to turn on a light.

"Leave it off." Joey's low tone is dangerous in the same quiet way as a blade that's so sharp, you don't even feel the cut, just watch yourself bleeding out.

Either at the macabre image or at Joey's command, Mitch knocks back a deeper swallow. The scotch has to be what roughens his voice when he doesn't question the darkness, only, "Why are you here?"

Joey hums. "That seems awfully existential for this time of night, Mitch. But I guess this could be when you do all your best thinking . . . by yourself, no Ray, no Tammy, no Aaaabby."

Mitch clenches his fist at the last singsong name. "Shut up. Don't even -- shut the hell up."

"Ooh." Joey moves closer, close enough that the filtered streetlights from outside let Mitch see Joey's face while he drinks, watching Mitch over the top of the glass. "I may have hit a nerve."

Without a thought Mitch smacks the glass from Joey's hand. Neither of them turns to watch it shatter as Mitch says, not really asking, "You want to talk about hitting."

Unruffled, Joey takes Mitch's glass, again, but he takes his time setting it on Mitch's desk rather than downing it. He looks back at Mitch. "Actually, I want to talk about what has you so worked up."

"Maybe it's just you," Mitch sneers.

Joey arches one eyebrow.

A noise, disgusted or pissed or something else, something Mitch refuses to explore, comes out of his throat. "You know that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Joey says smugly.

Mitch wants to scream and instead finds himself saying, "Abby kissed another guy."

"Jesus, is that all?" Joey leans back against Mitch's desk.

Mitch throws up his hands. "My wife kissed -- she _made out with_ some random guy her witch of a mother introduced her to!"

"So, what?" Joey scoffs. "I'm assuming that was in Kentucky, and she came home to you since then. Now she's confessed. You'll forgive her or you won't."

"It is _not_ that simple."

"Sure, it is."

Mitch turns his back, shaking his head.

"Unless," Joey continues, his voice suddenly right in Mitch's ear and his body a compact wall of heat against Mitch's back, "you're stuck, brooding here and not moving on, because you want to make out with another guy too."

"Fuck. You," Mitch grinds out. Every muscle feels stretched as tight as a drumhead. He has no idea how the next strike might vibrate him apart.

"Now, there's an idea." Sliding one hand around Mitch's waist, Joey drags his fingers up the denim covering Mitch's fly, the barest tickle to his dick.

Mitch jerks away to face him and reaches deep for calmness. "Quit while you're ahead, Joey."

Joey grins insouciantly. "Who knew you had such a dirty mouth?"

Mitch groans in exasperation.

"Will it help you get over this hangup, if I dare you?" Joey taunts. "Or how about with an added incentive?"

He pulls out a gun, waving it in Mitch's face like it's anything more than a prop -- anything more than an excuse for Mitch to latch onto.

"You know, I'm really getting tired of this shtick," Mitch growls.

"''Shtick'?" Joey repeats, his eyebrows climbing. A smirk tugs at his mouth and Mitch's attention.

Mitch refocuses on Joey's eyes, holding his gaze. "Yeah, the played-out shtick of your gun in my face."

He grabs the damn thing from Joey. The safety under Mitch's thumb is a reassurance. Joey goes still, not fighting for the gun, not fighting at all but not going limp. Mitch can see in the line of his shoulders and the muscle jumping in his cheek, Joey is tense with _anticipation_.

"How does it feel the other way around, Joey? Is that what you want?" Mitch brings the barrel right to Joey's cheek. Absently he strokes metal over skin. Joey shudders and closes his eyes, and Mitch's cock -- already hard, he suddenly realizes -- twitches in his pants. He traces the gun over Joey's mouth. When Joey starts to open for it, Mitch pulls away the gun. "No."

Joey lets out a soft whimper. He opens his eyes when Mitch's free hand lands on his shoulder and pushes down roughly.

Watching Joey sink to his knees, Mitch says again, "No, what you want is my cock in your face. In your mouth."

Joey's hands are clutching the hem of his jacket. His only answer is the slow sweep of his tongue across his lips.

Mitch raises the gun. "Do I need this?"

"Do you?" Joey parrots, the bravado sounding slightly forced, or maybe that's just his panted breaths.

Mitch leans forward to set the gun beside the abandoned glass on his desk. The angle brings him near enough for Joey to tilt forward and rub his cheek against Mitch's cock. Mitch draws in a sharp breath. He grips the edge of his desk with one hand. With the other he yanks open his jeans. He pulls his cock out of his briefs and feeds the tip into Joey's waiting mouth, then slides his fingers into Joey's hair.

Moaning, Joey curls his tongue around the head of Mitch's cock. He arches his neck, a long gleaming line. Mitch slams his cock deeper into Joey's mouth, into that shadowed heat until the head nudges the back of Joey's throat. Joey tries to swallow, Mitch can _feel_ it, and he grunts in surprised pleasure.

He pulls back long enough for Joey to breathe before thrusting in again, harder and harder, while Joey sucks and moans again and reaches into his own pants to jerk himself. Mitch tries to match his speed to Joey's hand, but his vision is blacking out. He gives up on finesse and just fucks back into the tight hot clutch of Joey's throat, and comes, shouting, "Fuck, fuck, Joey."

Mitch stumbles backward, falling into his chair and gulping at the air.

Breath even more ragged, Joey wipes a slick hand on his pants. He rasps, "Yeah. Fuck, Mitch."

They don't say anything else for a couple minutes. For Mitch's part, he has no idea what there is to say next.

Then Joey asks, "So. Feel better?"

Stunned, Mitch looks into Joey's eyes. He chuckles a little. And then he bursts fully into laughter, and Joey joins him. It could be hysteria. It could be insanity.

It could be something else he'll just have to explore.

~ end ~ 


End file.
